Once again, I do so without question. I test the latch on the door to the suite and tug once just to make sure.
“It’s locked,” I call back.
“Good.” He jerks his head and waits until I appear dutifully at his shoulder. He stands tall, holding the knife loosely within the fingers of his left hand—the same one that sports my cut. He makes sure Donahugh sees him clearly—the darkness in his eyes—but he doesn’t react when I take a step forward and sink down into a crouch, allowing the poor man to make eye contact with me instead. This ismygame, and like any good participant, the devil is willing to let me go first.
“Where are the girls?” I ask while my hands reach for the buttons of his shirt. I undo them swiftly, freeing a chest coveredin greasy, graying black hair. Biting back disgust, I run my finger along his sternum as if imagining the perfect place to cut and I dig my nail in hard enough to make him flinch. Then I glance back at Dante and attempt to mimic the devil’s low, steady tone. “Tell us where they are. Every last one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dante
Stacatto’s bitchis still a thrill-seeker, touching pointy objects with no idea as to what damage they might cause. It’s easier if I believe that—easier if I ignore the practiced confidence she wields that knife with. Her beloved “Vinny” has molded her well. I don’t think she even realizes just how much she enjoys the tendrils of fear she inspires in the prick lying beside her.
“Dante.”
I clench my jaw at the way her accent caresses the syllables of my name; I liked it better when she didn’t call me a damn thing.
“Would it hurt much if someone cut a man’s cock off?”
Her tone counters the shock of hearing those words come out of that prissy little mouth. She doesn’t sound like she’s bluffing. She’s thinking. She’s curious.Would it hurt?
“Yeah,” I grunt. “It might.” Standing above her, I see the way she seizes her lower lip between her teeth, those hazel eyes thoughtful.
“Would it hurt more if you used a butter knife?” One of herhands slides down the man’s beer gut, and two slim fingers dance over the hem of histighty whities.
Even I have to flinch in sympathy. “Damn right, that would hurt.” I flex the hand holding the knife. “It will be messy,” I admit, though even I hear the excitement dripping through my tone.
The girl shrugs, her bare shoulders flashing like ivory in the light of a chandelier dangling from the ceiling. “I could find a towel.” She starts to rise as if she’s eager to do just that, and the man moans out a stream of words.
“Fuck...little bitch... Kill me... He’ll kill...”
I frown, taking a step closer. I tower over him now, and he has to make himself cross-eyed just to avoid looking at me. “He’llkill you,” I repeat, stressing that single word while I nudge his side with the toe of my boot. “You wouldn’t mean Stacatto, now would you?”
The girl flinches, withdrawing her hand as if stung, and the bastard seems to realize that he said too much.
He shakes his head while sweat beads over his brow. “No...no...”
“And this little video,” I add, making my voice as level as I can. “You wouldn’t have been planning to take the girl for yourself after you were done...‘directing’ it, now were you?”
The sharp jerk of his chin gives me my answer.Bingo. Trust fucking Mack to walk right into a trap...and trust Vinny Stacatto’s little princess to spring it. I don’t know if it’s admiration I feel when I glance over at her or just plain irritation; a wolf doesn’t like to be out-foxed by his own prey. Though I was the one who voted against the damn plan in the first place. For all I knew, Stacatto could have had a legion waiting to rush in if this fucker didn’t check inwiththe girl in tow. For a second, I inhale shadow and see red. I almost don’t recognize the cool sensation that falls over my fingers until I glance down and see her hand there, gingerly brushing the one holding the knife.
Clarity comes back, but it’s almost too sharp. Colors arebrighter when she touches me. Her eyes are green and gold, swirling around two black holes. I shake my head, jerking my hand away. Then I raise the knife and eye the dull edge.
“Come here,” I tell the girl, and she rises to her feet, taking a step toward me.
She doesn’t fight when I pull her closer. Her bare back hits my chest, and my hands cage her in. I slip the one holding the knife beneath her arm and raise it, allowing her to clasp the back of it. Then I snatch up the fingers of her other hand, manipulating them one by one.
“Hold the knife like this,” I tell her, showing her the proper grip—at least if she was going to enter the cage.
She copies me like an eager student, her fingers flying to the proper positions as I guide them there. Only then do I remember what she said about playing an instrument. Cello.I don’t know too many musicians, but she has the hands of a dagger-thrower I met once, quick and slim. They’re not fit for pounding and smashing the way mine are. She’s a fluid little assassin, and I’m the animal.
“Hold it tight,” I explain, showing her how. When I yank on the blade, she doesn’t slack her grip and something that might be a smile tugs at my mouth. Once again, she proves to be a fast learner. “Nowwhenyou cut him—” I glance over and find that the bastard is watching every bit of this little lesson.“When you cut him, he’ll fight a little, but once the blood loss sets in...well, it will be like carving a slice of birthday cake.”
“Okay,” she breathes out, but there’s no ounce of disgust in her voice. She’s memorizing every word, watching my fingers move with hers. “Cake.”
“The first cut will be the trickiest,” I explain, shifting closer so that I have a clear view over her shoulder. I flick my wrist sharply, slashing the blade through the air. “You need to get it in as deep as you can.”
She nods and deftly pries the knife from my hand. She wieldsit just as well as any cage-fighter, pointing the blade at the sky. Then she jabs, ripping into her enemy. “Like that?” She sounds breathless. Eager. Ready.
